


Some Sort of Respite

by Lancre_witch



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Injuries, References to Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancre_witch/pseuds/Lancre_witch
Summary: Murphy Pendleton had been wandering Silent Hill and losing hope for longer than he'd care to think about, until he found a familiar face somewhere it shouldn't be.
Kudos: 5





	Some Sort of Respite

**Author's Note:**

> A scene from an alternative version of the events of Downpour where the Frank subplot explanation and resolution wasn't all bundled up together at the end. 
> 
> I was disappointed by how Downpour handled Frank's role in particular and disability in general, so this is the result.

Murphy staggered into another abandoned house, hoping against hope that this one was empty. Blood dripped down his leg from his latest encounter with one of those pallid bat monsters. The things came in packs and seemed to smell any injury from a mile away. He was only alive now because they liked to play with their food.

But the door had a bolt he could slide across, and he was too tired to run further. He’d find a bedroom, barricade the door as well as he could, then see to his leg and hope his dreams wouldn’t be too unkind.

They would be. He knew that too well by now, but he could hope.

Before he could drag himself upstairs, he heard a noise from along the hall. At any other time he wouldn’t have noticed the quiet creak of a floorboard, but in this town you either stayed alert or you died.

Murphy let out his breath quietly and shifted his grip on the crowbar in his hand. If he took the thing by surprise, it might only take one good blow to the head, then drive the straight end through its chest. Make it quick, that was what mattered.

He pushed the living room door open slowly, and the crowbar clattered to the ground, forgotten.

“Frank?”

Murphy hadn’t seen Officer Coleridge since the attack, and now he knew why. Frank wasn’t in any state to go back to work. He wasn’t in much of a state for anything. It was clear that the powered wheelchair was the only thing keeping him so much as sitting upright. His head lolled against the headrest, unmoving as Murphy stared. But the eyes, those eyes were the same as ever, and they fixed on him without a hint of reproach.

“Frank,” Murphy repeated, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.” His voice broke. He didn’t care. Whatever dignity, whatever self respect Murphy may have had, that had died when Frank hit the shower room floor.

He staggered across the floor, half articulate phrases mingling with his sobs.

Murphy wasn’t aware of falling to his knees, only that Frank was looking down at him now with that same steady gaze.

“I don’t- deserve your forgiveness,” he managed through his tears.

But that was Frank wasn’t it? The one man who had never given up on him. Not even now.

Murphy sagged against him, tears marking Frank’s hospital gown. After a few seconds, some degree of thought returned and he looked up, silently asking for permission.

A muscle twitched around Frank’s mouth. That must be the closest he could manage to a smile now. Murphy took it. He cuddled into the man’s lap as if he were a scared little boy, not a convicted killer. He didn’t deserve this comfort, but more importantly Frank didn’t deserve what had happened, and there was no way at all to make it right.

The old man had lost so much weight. It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was. When he had been in prison, Frank had been a comfortably built man – not fat, but far from slender. Now Murphy could feel his ribs under his hands. Murphy’s own chest heaved with more stifled sobs. It was his fault, all of it, and no apology would ever be enough.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but eventually his tears eased and his breathing evened out, and still Frank didn’t move an inch. Murphy didn’t even know if he could. He should get up, do something useful, but he was so tired, and his legs were half numb from the awkward position. It wouldn’t hurt to stay just a little longer…

Murphy’s eyes closed and his ragged breaths slowed. The man in the wheelchair made sure he was asleep before he let the guise fall.

Frank Coleridge was the name of the memories he had been built from, but he was of Silent Hill. A creation of fear and guilt spun into something solid. His existence was to punish the lad, but there were ways and ways of punishment, as Frank remembered.

Whatever the monster in the chair may have been, he moved a hand slowly, and stroked the sleeping Murphy’s hair.


End file.
